The Evils of Muffins
by Clecky
Summary: Wilson has a muffin and an accident. House has a scare and a temper tantrum.


"Is there something you're not telling me, Wilson?"

"What?" Wilson felt an overwhelming lassitude and general reluctance to move that was inexplicable.

"You jumped or fell off the balcony, had heroin in your system, and would have died if Chase hadn't been walking by on the first floor." House had the icy edge to his voice that Wilson had come to recognize as either confused, pissed off beyond all belief, or both.

"What?" Wilson asked again, sharper this time and vaguely annoyed. He was sure House's words meant something bad, but he couldn't quite figure it out...

"You tried to kill yourself." House clarified.

"What?" Wilson asked a third time, with complete and total disbelief. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" He probably didn't help his vehement denial by laughing suddenly. This was absurd; House was having another joke at his expense.

"What's today's date?" House asked, still with the faint icy edge. Wilson managed to pry his eyelids open half an inch, curious about what House's expression looked like, but shut them in a hurry when the light _hurt_.

"Did I hit my head?" Wilson managed to twitch his arm, about to feel his head, until he noticed that his wrist was held by a thick leather strap attached to something solid. He'd been tied down.

"What's today's date?" House repeated, standing up and beginning to pace. Wilson recognized the sounds of limping, even if he couldn't keep his eyes open yet.

"December thirty-first. Untie me, will you?" Wilson asked. There was a thought, just out of reach of his mind (there was something wrong with that, Wilson thought, because thoughts usually ambushed him, so he didn't have to go to them- something was really wrong if he was thinking in that sort of bizarre metaphor) that was composed of three fourths unease and one fourth sheer terror.

House sat down abruptly, and Wilson's nervous thought inched closer. House wasn't untying him. Perhaps now would be a good time to start panicking. "What year?" House asked, with exactly the same tone of voice. Wilson's nervous thought knocked on the door of his mind, but he managed to block it out.

"Two thousand six. How about the untying, huh?" Wilson tugged feebly on the strap that pinned his wrist.

"Not until I figure out what the hell is going on with you." House stood up again, and Wilson was a little startled because House never moved around this much unless he had to.

"Am I on suicide watch or something?" Wilson asked lightly, pulling on the strap with a little more determination.

"Yes!" House snapped. "I can just about accept falling off the balcony, because I know you're not the most coordinated man on Earth, but the heroin is what I can't figure out. It doesn't help that this is two thousand seven, not six, and you had an epidural hematoma with obvious neurological symptoms."

"What?" Wilson asked again, knowing that he was repeating himself. "No, it's definitely two thousand six. I was just telling off the techs for not noticing that the autoclave wasn't airtight."

"Neurological symptoms, and now amnesia." House sighed, and thumped the ground with his cane. "I wonder where I can find a neurologist?"

"Heroin?" Wilson muttered, catching up a bit. "I've never done drugs in my life, except pot. And that, not for years. In fact, I quite like my veins intact, thanks. But I also abuse caffeine, can't forget the caffeine." He tried prying his eyes open again, with slightly better results.

"Well, you have an IV now." House said with the brand of false cheer that was meant to make people feel worse, not better. "And all the attention you can stand."

"Attention? What?" Wilson tried again. Maybe if he kept asking, things would begin to make sense eventually. Stranger things had happened... like waking up on suicide watch.

"You didn't throw yourself off the balcony as a cry for help?" House asked, thumping his cane harder. "No, you're right, I think the cry for help may have been the heroin. The jumping off the balcony was the real deal."

"I think we may have to start this conversation over." Wilson said slowly. "Maybe begin with why you think I took heroin- no, better begin with the part where you think I jumped off the balcony. That's probably a good place to start."

House stopped and stood still; Wilson opened his eyes a bit wider and saw that he'd shifted his grip on his cane, holding it like a baseball bat. Then, almost too fast to follow, House lashed out. A vase full of flowers went flying across the room and shattered against what sounded like the far wall.

"Hey!" Wilson protested. "Were those for me? Quit abusing my presents!" He sat up as far as he could and jerked as hard as he could on the restraints. House was standing still with his head down; Wilson managed to get one hand out of the restraints and began to open the one on his other wrist. House didn't move. "What did the flowers do to you, huh? I bet the flower mafia will be after you now." Wilson continued, trying desperately for an amused tone instead of a terrified one. "And I know the nurses will be yelling at you- oh, wait, I forgot that you like to upset the nurses. Fire away, then."

House glanced up, uncertainly it seemed to Wilson (no, it couldn't be, House was never uncertain) and met Wilson's eyes. "Definite neurological symptoms." He pronounced, and began pacing again, pausing only to tap Wilson's free hand away from his tied-down wrist. "Leave that alone and tell me everything you remember."

"I remember Cathy Ellsbrook passing me notes in second grade-"

"Wilson!" House snapped, and destroyed another vase with a borad backhanded sweep of his cane. Wilson winced. Humor was obviously not the way to go at the moment.

"I was telling the techs off for not noticing the autoclave failure. Then I... I was going to go home, after the board meeting with Cuddy and the new donor- the one who wanted all the windows painted with a reflective coating to save on air conditioning bills. I had a cup of coffee and a muffin... I was going to the garage and I was tired, but the elevator was taking too long, so I was going to go take the one by radiology."

"The autoclave to the meeting with the donor who wanted to paint the windows over- a gap of about three days that you've forgotten, and a muffin. What kind of muffin?" House asked, with his patented I-know-something-you-don't-you-moron voice.

"How should I know? A muffin is a muffin." Wilson got his eyes all the way open and for the first time he could see that his room was practically smothered in flowers. It looked like a miniature jungle. "Would you mind bumping off some more flowers? This is making me feel claustrophobic."

"With pleasure." House seized the nearest vase, ripped the flowers out and tossed them further into the jungle, and emptied the vase over Wilson's head.

"Hey!" Wilson yelped, batting ineffectively at the falling water with his freed hand. "Stop that! House!"

"I baptize you the most stupid man I've ever had the misfortune to meet." House announced, tossing the vase carelessly over his shoulder and nearly pegging the television. "It must have been a poppyseed muffin."

"Oh, of course, that's one of those riddles like 'what color is the bear eating the penguin?'" Wilson asked, nodding wisely and using his freed hand to brush his now sopping hair out of his eyes.

"What are you babbling about now?" House asked, annoyed. As usual. Anything usual could be counted a good thing at the moment.

"The riddle about bears eating penguins... it's supposed to be a polar bear, but they live at the other pole." Wilson explained.

House stared at him and then shook his head slowly. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But what I'm talking about is the fact that poppy seeds are the precursors to heroin. And often they give a false positive for opiates."

"I told you I don't take heroin." Wilson reminded him. "Can I un-restrain myself now?"

"But what you didn't tell me is that you must have some bizarre sensitivity to opiates in general, even in minute amounts." House began pacing again, muttering to himself. "Why isn't in your chart, and why didn't I know?"

"I have some bizarre sensitivity to opiates?" Wilson repeated. "I've never had opiates before in my life. Not codeine or anything. Or poppyseeds, I guess."

"Well, obviously not, or we'd be having this conversation in the morgue. Or I would, anyway. You'd be- beyond help."

"Ha!" Wilson felt a huge grin breaking out on his face, and didn't try to stop it. "You care!"

House stared at him and blinked. "Obvious neurological symptoms." He noted once again. "Everyone knows I'm a mean, sarcastic, stone-hearted SOB."

"They take you for granite." Wilson suggested, and began laughing uproariously at House's expression. "Granted, granite, get it?" He asked, just to rub the awful pun in a little more. House obviously got it. He emptied another vase over Wilson's head, not bothering to remove the flowers first this time. Wilson was laughing too hard to try to stop him, and ended up wearing a tasteful display of baby's breath and forget-me-nots.

"I think you may be stoned right now." House shook his head in a superior sort of way. "Lovely analgesics, aren't they? Lucky that I wouldn't let them give you any more opiates. Granted, I was thinking more along the lines of 'make him suffer through withdrawal' than 'save his stupid life'."

A nurse poked her head into the room and was nearly hit by the flying vase that House tossed (again, over his shoulder; it was nothing personal) and quickly ducked back out again.

"Help, call Security! I think Dr. House is hurting Dr. Wilson!" She shouted. Wilson was positively howling now, and House was smiling. Another nurse apparently informed the ignorant one of the status quo and she abruptly shut up.

"Bets on what Security would say?" Wilson gasped between gales of giggles. "Twenty says one of them would tell me I don't have to put up with your abusing me and recommend a domestic help hotline."

"No bet." House shook his head and, after eying the slightly soggy edge of the bed, prudently decided to sit on the chair instead. "They always take your side."

"Well, you were getting a little fresh," Wilson waved his hand at all of the fresh flowers, "and violent with the violets." He began laughing again.

House rolled his eyes and snorted censoriously. "What the hell did Chase put you on anyway, nitrous?"

Wilson grinned and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. He hadn't laughed like that in... too long. "So can I get up now, House? I solemnly swear not to chuck myself over the balcony absent the influence of opiates."

"Neuro check first." House said sternly. "What's your name?"

"Scooby-Doo!" Wilson answered promptly.

"Age?" House continued.

"Untold millennia, I have walked this verdant earth." Wilson pronounced, in the precise way that suggested a slightly tipsy man who thought he was perfectly sober. Wilson had a lot of practice in imitating that particular inflection.

"Gender?"

"Well, gee, I'm not quite sure..." Wilson shrugged theatrically.

"Size?" House asked, leering.

"Ten and a half and you know it; you kept stealing my shoes to feed to the squirrels, remember?"

"Those were good times," House reminisced nostalgically, "and some truly weird squirrels... I guess you're fine. Just take it easy- oh, and you're coming home with me tonight. You get to wash the dirty dishes piled almost to the ceiling, and I get to make sure you don't slip into an irreversible coma and die."

"Life is full of trade-offs." Wilson commented philosophically. He finally undid his other restraints and sat up slowly, enjoying the freedom to move. "I'm not going to ride the motorcycle, though. I absolutely refuse."

"How'd you know I brought my bike?" House asked with an innocent expression. "Why on earth would I ride my bike in the middle of winter?"

"You just told me you did bring the stupid thing." Wilson answered. At House's quickly veiled, concerned glance, he hastily continued, "By answering that way, I mean. It was a lucky guess and you confirmed it."

House rolled his eyes. "Next thing you know, there will be a movie- The House Whisperer. Oh, wait, they already made that one. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, wasn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, he limped out, taking care to yell loudly over his shoulder, "See you at home, honeybuns!"

Wilson rolled his eyes at House's retreating back and smiled charmingly at the chastened nurse who had been so concerned for his safety when she poked her head around the door again. "Do you know of anyone who could use some flowers?" He asked her with a shy sideways grin while picking flowers out of his hair. "I seem to have an overabundance."

She practically melted into a puddle of goo on the floor, and House stopped outside the window to pantomime vomiting. Wilson smiled, slightly smugly, and waved House away.

He had the feeling that when his "lovely analgesics" wore off he'd be miserable, but at the moment he was throughly happy. Happy. Amazing, truly amazing. He would have to take up extreme sports in his spare time and have a few more random, entirely preventable brushes with death.

With that ludicrous thought, Wilson went back to sleep on his soggy bed with the nurse's inane comments for a lullaby. And, of course, there was the sound of House thumping the elevator down the hall with his cane in the background.


End file.
